Stop.Slip.Pass.

I like post its.
They're the closest an inanimate object can get to telling me that I'm studying, working and being a studmuffin in life in general.

Whenever I hear a bus screech to a halt, my mind inadvertently seizes in momentary panic. The memory of course, of countless school buses that were missed, or worse, the shamefulness of being the last one to board it, panting while everyone else just sort of stared accusingly.
Guilty As Charged.

The most satisfying kind of fights are the ones I wage inside my head with people I wouldn't be able to say these things out loud to,even if you paid me to. This way, I ALWAYS win. I have the wittiest comebacks (AT the time of said argument as opposed to 15 hours later) and get the words to come out instead of mumbling half formed idiocies before running away. I'm a coward like that. Plus, I'd probably be left with no friends.

My capacity for self pity, I have discovered, is quite like the bottomless pit I have often wished Narendera Modi would fall in.

Long text messages. The kind you want to read again, and again and again. Till you know it like you know the alphabet, and then reading it once more.


The best days are the ones on which you catch the double decker bus from RC Church ( because you actually got up on time to be able to catch one ) with happy music blaring from your earphones till everything else sort of fades away into the relegated background.

When I have a good dream I sleep again after getting up just to try and see if I can will it to come back .

Winters. Colourful socks.Giagantic sweatshirts. Snuggly blankets, hot chocolate and lots of books.

There was an article about being a carbohydrate addict today. Does a dessert a day qualify? My parents and the weighing scales I suspect, may be inclined to agree.

I miss the absolutes in my life.
The certainty of stubborn belief, the higher ground of preemptive judgment of people I didn't even know and the comfort of familiarity.
Black and white.
I don't like hues of grey. They're awkward, they leave room for further thought, they make me less sure and they ruin carefully etched plans.


The semblance of a blog that was. The memory of the people and phases it represented.
The cynical acceptance of a lack, of everything.